


Strange Is The Night Where Black Stars Rise

by lovingangelindisguise



Category: True Detective
Genre: Age Difference, Bikers, Canon-Typical Violence, Choking, Come Eating, Daddy Kink, Depression, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Family Member Death, Finger Sucking, Grinding, I get embarrassed writing tags I'm like who am I?????????, I googled images of his arms and have no regrets, I'm dying y'all I'm dying over the fact that I wrote this bye, I'm obsessed with that mess, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Lingerie, Motorcycles, Nihilism, Older Man/Younger Woman, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, POV Second Person, Protective Rust Cohle, Reader-Insert, Rough Kissing, Rust Cohle as Crash, Rust Cohle is a mess, Sex Work, Size Difference, Southern Gothic, Strippers & Strip Clubs, True Detective Season/Series 01, Trust me it's coming lmao, Vaginal Fingering, thigh riding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:07:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28254372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovingangelindisguise/pseuds/lovingangelindisguise
Summary: You've been living in Vermilion Parish your whole life, lost somewhere between the freeways and bayous, and the 9 to 5 monotony—going nowhere fast. Nobody warned you to get lost before it gets ugly, because anyone who might've didn't know you soon enough to say it.But you get by, and in that getting by you cross paths with another lost soul. A detective whose made it is his charge to keep bad men from the door.
Relationships: Rustin "Rust" Cohle/Original Female Character, Rustin "Rust" Cohle/Reader
Comments: 39
Kudos: 51





	1. Smoke

**Author's Note:**

> So, this happened.
> 
> True Detective Season 1 is hands down my favorite season of a show ever, so this was truly a long time coming since Rust is also one of my favorite fictional characters. This story is already unraveling so quickly and the coming chapters will be the same, his character is so much fun to write! I hope you all enjoy this story as much as I am enjoying writing it ❤️
> 
> In some parts of this I took actual dialogue from the scripts but I own Nothing from this show— just am using it for personal enjoyment.

The Louisiana sun beats down hot on the pavement, and from the window you can even see the blurry waves of heat rising from the heavily trafficked street. It’s nearly eighty out, at least that’s what the thermometer by the door reads, and it’s only half past eleven am.

“Thanks, honey.” The old man gives you a warm smile as you finish filling up his coffee, a smile that makes his eyes crinkle up in the corners with genuine contentedness. His gravelly voice draws your attention back to the moment, and you return his smile before setting the mug back down beside his plate.

The diner is always busy that hour just before lunch, and currently people are lined up on the stools at the counter, their white noise of conversation filling every pocket of silence. You retrieve a pen from where it sticks out from the messy bun you put your hair up into this morning, to jot down orders on your way by the counter. Loose strands hang down into you face, signaling it’s almost time for your break which is also when you’ll go into the bathroom and try to make it a little more presentable.

A quiet sigh escapes your lips as you and make your way behind the counter to place the coffee pot back on the warmer. Darla is cashing out a group of regulars, and you zone out to their idle chit-chat.

With your back turned you can only hear the faint chime of the bell over the front door, but the sound makes your heart skip a beat. He’s late today.

Sparing a quick glance over your shoulder, Darla is already giving you a knowing smirk, and you snatch the coffee pot up again before flitting over to the far corner booth where the two detectives are making themselves comfortable. Butterflies flutter in your belly, but you keep your eyes trained on your white sneakers to keep from stumbling—counting each little splatter of coffee that mars them.

The low murmur of his voice greets your ears before you see him, quiet and melodic with a syrupy Texas drawl. It’s a sharp contrast to his partner, whose booming voice will literally echo across the diner when he’s particularly passionate about something. With a deep breath, you step up to their table, the coffee pot clutched tightly in your fist.

“Morning, what can I get you started with?” Your voice is a little shaky from the vibration of nervous excitement coursing through every nerve in your body right now, but you force yourself to look up with a sweet smile plastered on your face to mask it.

“How ‘bout ah little bit of that coffee, sweetheart?” His partner moves his mug to the end of the table so it’s easier for you to reach, and you quickly oblige—thankfully surviving pouring it without making any kind of mess.

“None for me. Thank you.” At the sound of his voice your eyes flicker over, and a small blush colors your cheeks when you see he’s staring right at you. His eyes remind you of a storm, grey and blue, and dark. Almost, foreboding.

“O-okay,” inwardly you scold yourself for giving such a stupid response, “Will either of you be havin’ anythin’ to eat this morning?” You feel so small standing over their table, as if a spotlight is shining directly on you and they’re waiting for either some grand gesture or for you to get off the stage.

“I’ll take ah piece of apple pie.” His partner flashes you what would be a charming smile and takes a satisfied sip of his coffee. You jot it down on your little notepad—more for show if anything since a piece of pie isn’t much to remember—before turning to the other detective.

“Nothing for me.” This time he doesn’t look up at you, too busy pouring over what you assume is a casefile, and you can’t help your heart sinking at the way it feels as though he’s dismissing you.

“I’ll be right back with your pie, sir.” You give his partner a small smile and then hurry back to the counter where the pies are kept on display in individual glass domes.

As you cut a slice of apple pie, Darla comes over to you and leans up against the counter, and you can feel her eyes on you even though you don’t look up. When your mom died of cancer Darla took it upon herself to look after you, and although you’re twenty and it’s been three years since your mom passed, you still can’t convince her that you don’t need looking after anymore.

“Girl, you’ve been eyeballin’ that man since the day he walked through these doors. You ever gonna work up the nerve to talk to him?” She gives your arm an affectionate pinch and you can’t help but smile, then setting the slice of pie on a plate.

“I’ve got no idea what you’re talkin’ about.” You scoop up the plate and then stick your tongue out at her as you make your way back to their table, to which she rolls her eyes. Their conversation seems to have taken a more heated turn now, since you can hear his partner’s voice reaching heights across the room, and when you approach shyly with pie in hand— he instantly sets his sights on you.

“Thanks so much, sweetheart. Before you go, would you mind tellin’ us a little bit about yourself? I see you every time we come in here and it just don’t seem right that we all don’t know each other’s names. I’m Marty, by the way, and the quiet one is Rust.” Marty extends his hand for you to shake, and hesitantly you take it, wincing slightly at how firm his grip is. You swear you can hear your fingers crunch as he wrings your hand out.

“I-uh, I’m Layla.” Once Marty frees your aching hand, your gaze flickers to Rust to find he’s leaning back in his seat with a stoic expression—as if he’s resounded to not entertaining the antics of his partner.

“Layla… That’s a lovely name.” Marty smiles up at you and then lifts up his fork to saw off a bite of the apple pie, “You live around here?” He asks before taking a mouthful.

“Not too far, just between here and Norco. There’s a uh—a mobile home park out there.” You have to clasp your hands together to keep from fidgeting, not used to talking to people about yourself—let alone to customers, or more specifically a customer that has been endlessly in your thoughts.

To your surprise, Rust speaks up:

“That’s up by Lucky Devil, yeah?” He’s staring intently at you now, though still leaned back in his seat.

“Yeah, it is… my big brother is one of the owners of that place.” You admit it quietly, because Heaven knows your brother wouldn’t want you talking about his work to two cops. He’d probably beat it out of your head just for thinking about it.

Rust just hums in response, though you see a flicker of emotion beneath the mask of stoicism.

“Hope you’re bein’ careful up there, sweetheart. That ain’t no place for a pretty girl like you.” Marty chimes in, taking the last bite of pie.

“Yes, sir. I try.” You hurriedly gather up his empty plate when he pushes it towards you, dearly hoping that this is your cue to escape—but unfortunately, it isn’t.

“You gotta car, sweetie?” Marty’s gaze flickers from you to Rust, and then back to you.

The question seems odd, and a bit personal, but you’re in too deep to back out now.

“No, I take the bus or sometimes my coworker Darla gives me a ride home when she can.”

At this Marty tsks, turning his gaze to Rust with an expression almost like pouting, which you didn’t even think it was possible for a grown man to pout but evidently…

“Well, now if you ever spot one of us still sittin’ here by the time you’re done with your shift— I want you to have one of us drive you home okay? I can’t in my right conscience let a young girl like yourself take the bus up to Norco all by your lonesome.”

“You really don’t have to do that I’m used to it—” You begin to protest but Marty just interrupts.

“Just say yes, no arguing.” His tone has taken on a sterner edge and you swallow thickly, giving a quick nod.

“Okay, I will… That’s really kind of you both. Thank you.”

Marty just flashes you one of his winning smiles and you take that as your cue to hightail it out of there, clutching the plate desperately in a white knuckled grip until you make it back behind the counter. Before you can even put the plate in the dirty dish bucket Darla’s by your side with a cheesy grin plastered on her face.

“So, what happened?” She says it in a half-shout half-whisper, and your cheeks burn at the thought that the detectives might overhear.

“Nothing, seriously! The blonde one, Marty, just asked me a little bit about myself and… and then he said if I ever need a ride home and I see one of them around, I should ask instead of taking the bus.”

Darla crosses her arms and leans back against the counter with a smug look, then throwing a quick glance over her shoulder towards the two detectives before turning back to you.

“You know what this means, right?”

“Uhm, no? What does it mean?” You sigh and place one hand on your hip, trying to seem nonchalant about the whole thing.

“It means you’re workin’ ah half day and gettin’ a ride from that chiseled jaw of a man sittin’ right over there.” Darla just laughs when your cheeks turn red, and you shake your head furiously.

“There’s no way I’m gonna ask him for a ride!” You drag her back into the kitchen with you, where the cooks are standing around passing a cigarette between each other.

“ _Of course_ you’re not gonna ask him, sugar! You’re just gonna go stand by the bus stop right out front here and then he’ll offer you one. Trust me, I know these things.”

“No, he won’t! He was pretty obviously annoyed by his partner even offerin’ him up like that.” You cross your arms defiantly and she just rolls her eyes.

“Listen, I’ll bet you my next batch of Mary Kay lipsticks once I get ‘em in the mail that he’ll give you a ride.”

This makes you stop and think. You never have enough money to spend on makeup, after all you can barely even afford new clothes from the local thrift store. Maybe if you wore red lipstick to work one day, Rust would take more notice of you.

With a sigh, you hold your hand out for her to shake: “Fine, it’s a deal.”

Darla gives your hand a firm shake, laughing all the while, and then spins you by the shoulders and shoves you towards the back room where all of the employee lockers are.

“Now go get your things honey, you’ve got a bus to catch.”

* * *

Standing out at the bus stop, your nerves are at an all time high and you find yourself actually praying that the bus will be early for once… though you know a whole hour early is asking a lot.

The pungent smell of piss and trash is a stifling combination in the midday heat, and your dress is starting to feel sticky with sweat the longer the sun beats down on you. If only this bus stop had a shelter, you think while shifting anxiously from one foot to another.

You scuff your white sneaker against the pavement, and then lean forward to inspect a bruise on your knee that you must have got while working—or maybe Ginger gave it to you. Too busy poking at the bruise you fail to notice a car pull up along the curb, too quiet to be a bus, but the sound of a door slamming draws your attention up. It’s Rust, and he’s walking around the front of the car to the passenger’s side.

“Thought you said you’d ask.” He remarks, now holding the passenger door open and staring at you with half-lidded eyes. You stare back blankly, eyes flitting between him and the open door as your brain tries to process what’s happening. Is he really offering you a ride?

“O-oh! Uhm, the bus should be here any moment—” You stammer through the lie, straightening up quickly, but he just shakes his head.

“It’ll be quicker if I give you a ride.”

After a moment of internal debate, you decide to take him up on the offer before you’re stuck walking home all because a lack of confidence.

He closes the door for you once you get in, and you watch as he walks around to the driver’s side. He’s tall and lean, but you can still see the undeniable strength that he carries—and the way the sleeves of his button down shirt are rolled up gives you a glimpse of his tanned forearms and the slight sinew of muscle there.

When he slides into the driver’s seat beside you, you tear your eyes away so that he won’t catch you looking and distract yourself with your surroundings instead.

The car is clean and comfortable inside, and it feels good to be sitting after hours of waiting tables. Rust starts the engine, and the radio comes on quietly along with a cool rush of air from the radiator, which you lean towards with a sigh of contentment.

He pulls away from the diner and out onto the main road, and you try your best not to stare at him as he drives—focusing instead on cooling down as much as you can. The air conditioner at your home has been broken for the last week and a half and since your brother is so rarely home, he hasn’t bothered to fix it, leaving you stuck in an eighty degree box of Hell. 

Once you’re off the main street and hit the back road to Norco, he drives fast and everything outside becomes a blur of Summer colors, the wind against the car filling the silence. It feels strange to be sitting next to him, almost intimate, and comparatively it is. You reach up and pull the velvet scrunchie out of your hair that had been keeping it in a bun, and your hair falls long past your shoulders—the release of tension on your scalp making you hum happily.

You roll down the window of the car and lean out, holding your hand out against the raging wind as he speeds down the 48. It feels carefree, letting the wind whip your hair around and the warmth of it against your skin. For a moment, you can even imagine you’re together and that he’s just taking you on a drive for fun—not back to the mobile home park, not to the diner. None of that exists.

After a while you finally lean back in your seat, a contented smile on your lips as you roll up the window and block out the summer wind—left once more with the songs on the radio. It’s peaceful, watching the wetlands rush past sound-tracked by whatever song plays. So far, you’ve only recognized Patsy Cline. 

Staring out the window becomes too hypnotizing though so your head lolls to the side and you watch Rust instead—admiring the sharp line of his jaw and high set of his cheekbones. Still lost in your fantasy. He always looks so serious, with a permanent furrow in his already heavy brow.

_It's so many miles and so long since I've met you_

_Don't even know what I'll find when I get to you_

_But suddenly now, I know where I belong_

_It's many hundred miles but it won't be long_

You quietly hum along with the song, and you swear the corner of his lip quirks with a smile, but it happens so fast you can’t be sure. Still, it makes you wonder what he’s thinking about, hopefully he doesn’t regret giving you a ride. The longer you watch him, your eyes begin to eyes slip closed, the long day finally taking its toll.

“Which way?” His voice startles you from your half-asleep state, and you sit up in your seat—looking at the street sign to figure out where you are since Darla usually takes a different route.

“Straight, and then it’s just a few more streets ahead on the left.” You feel remiss that the drive has gone so fast and that the moment with him is slipping away. Why’d you have to go and fall asleep even for a second? You wish desperately to be able to muster the nerve to say something, but everything that comes to mind is too extreme and would only solidify your immaturity. At least to him, you think.

“You in school?” Rust breaks the silence much to your surprise, driving slowly as the surroundings have now turned residential.

“No, I graduated two years ago.” Inwardly, you cringe as you say it, hoping that your youth won’t be a deterrence. When you look over, he just nods, though still maintaining his usual impassive expression.

When the entrance of the mobile home park comes into view up on the left, you gather your purse off the floor and slide the velvet scrunchie onto your wrist. No prolonging the inevitable.

“You can just drop me off there by the fence.”

Rust pulls into the driveway and off to the side along the ditch where the fence ends, and then leans back in the seat with his wrist draped casually over the steering wheel, now turning his attention to you.

“Thanks for givin’ me a ride, I really appreciate it.” You smile shyly at him and he gives you a half-smile and a nod in return, which makes your heart practically lurch into your throat. He’s never smiled at you before.

“Anytime… Have a goodnight, Layla.” When he says your name, he lingers on the word—as if he’s questioning the way it feels on his lips and as breath in his lungs. You quickly duck out of the car before you make a fool of yourself but take a moment to stand by the fence and watch as he pulls away, and wave goodbye at him—to which he gives you a hand raised off the steering wheel in return, but it’s enough to make your heart hammer.

It’s only a five-minute walk from there to home, but it’s notably your favorite part of the day whenever you take the bus. You always take your time and let your fingers brush through the tips of the long grass and wildflowers along the side of the gravel road. Kids play on the lawns in front of their homes, high-pitched squeals of laughter the only other sound beside the crunch of your sneakers on the gravel.

Somehow, it’s always so quiet out here, and sometimes the silence is so deafening it feels like water rushing in your ears, and makes your palms sweat with the realization of how alone you really are. Today you’re not alone, though. You have every moment of that car ride with him to keep you company through the night.

Your brother’s car is gone when you arrive at the front of your mobile home, and you mutter a ‘thank you’ to the universe as you fish for the house keys in your purse. Once you find the keys you head inside, always flinching when the screen door bangs shut, something you’ve never gotten used to.

Your brother pinned up sheets over the windows after mama kept complaining about the light making her eyes ache, and never bothered to take them down after she died. The dim, grey light makes it seem even more dismal inside than it probably is, you think. You switch off the TV that was left on before heading down the hallway to your room.

The door to your brother’s room is closed, as always, and you shut the door to your own behind you before letting your purse drop from your shoulder onto the dirty carpet. Eight hours till your shift at Lucky Devil, you sit on the bed and toe off your sneakers, time enough to take a shower and get ready. You always leave a little early and go to your friend Amber’s house since you work the same shift, and you can catch a ride with her to and from.

One job is to pay rent to your brother and the other is to save for college, which seems like the best bet at an escape from your current situation. You’re lucky enough that your brother even let you finish out high school when mama died, and you’d done pretty good with your grades too. As long as your brother gets his cut of the money for the burden that you are, he doesn’t give a shit what you do. Your dad had hoped for another boy, said there’s more money to be made from a son. Your mother had just prayed to birth the next son of God and not a Jezebel. They were both sorely disappointed.

After a long relaxing shower, you pull on a pair of black denim shorts and an oversized t-shirt that has some faded words on the front you can’t even read anymore. You stuff your work clothes and boots in a duffle bag, and then start rushing when you can hear Amber impatiently honk her car horn outside. Last thing you grab is your black leather jacket off the bed and then hurry down the hall and outside to where Amber is waiting in her rundown Accord.

Amber mumbles a greeting behind the cigarette between her lips and pulls away from the curb, heading down the street towards her house.

“You have a good day at work?” She asks, flicking ash out the open window.

“Yeah, just another day of standin’ around killin’ my feet.” You roll down your own window to get some fresh air. The car always smells musty like cigarettes and empty soda cans and the trash that’s littered on the floor around your feet. Nothing like Rust’s car.

“That guy you like come in?”

“I don’t even know him… but, yes.” You roll your eyes when Amber smiles triumphantly. You’ve been friends since middle school, so there isn’t a thing you don’t tell or know about each other.

“Well, maybe you should get to know him. When was the last time you even had a boyfriend?” She tosses the cigarette out and then rolls up the window.

“Not since ever, and I dunno he seems older and like he’s got his shit together. Which is the opposite of me… He did give me a ride home from work today though.”

“You’re fuckin’ kiddin’ right?! That’s huge, girl!”

You can’t fight the smile that her excitement causes. What would you do without her and Darla there to lift you up when everything else tries to keep you down at heel?

She pulls up into the driveway of what’s been dubbed ‘The Sad Spirit House’ by the neighborhood. Apparently it was named long before Amber moved in there to be with her boyfriend, but being inside is what really gives away why it’s called that.

“Goddammit, Shaun and Eli are home.” Amber nods at the two Harley’s that are in the driveway, as you both get out of the car. Already the heavy thud of bass can be heard from outside as you walk up the steps to the front door, and inside the ominous drone of doom metal is mind-numbingly loud coming from the basement beneath you. You hurry past the kitchen to Amber’s room and she slams the door closed with an angry huff.

It’s getting dark outside finally, as you two sit side by side on the floor in front of the only mirror in the room fixing up your hair and makeup. You’re swiping mascara over your long lashes as Amber lights up another cigarette, letting it hang from between her lips as she runs a brush through your long hair.

This is your nightly routine, prepping together and silently hoping for some big break to save you both. At this point it almost feels like you do it for luck, and that if you stop that will be the one night something bad happens like a twisted ankle or something worse. It’s comforting.

Once Amber has packed her own clothes it’s around the time to leave. The house has been getting busier outside her room and the music is a steady hum of static reverb and screaming beneath you, glass breaking periodically and drunken shouts breaking up the tedium.

“They must be having a show tonight. I wish Denny would have warned me.” Amber sighs and reluctantly opens the door to the throng of fucked up strangers wandering aimlessly in the living room. You both weave through the crowd and for a moment your eyes linger on two guys bent over the coffee table cutting up a line while others sit eagerly around them on the couch.

The fresh night air is welcome once you finally make it outside, though it’s still warm out in these months, even past nine. Cars and bikes are lined up along the curb and Amber curses under her breath, wrenching open the door to her own car and them slamming it shut.

Without warning, she speeds back out of the driveway and knocks one of the motorcycles over on her way, then peeling out onto the road with a squeal from the tires.

“Serves ‘em right.” She mumbles and you just laugh, turning back in your seat to watch the house grow smaller as you speed away. Amber reaches over your legs and opens the glove box to pull out a brown paper bag, and then shoves it in your lap.

“Roll us one.”

You glance at her from the corner of your eye but nod and pull the plastic bag of weed and rolling papers out. Amber always gets edgy before work. She’s one of those girls who doesn’t have a thick enough skin to let it all roll off her shoulders. It’s really not so bad if you keep your head down and don’t start drama, and don’t play into the catty games of the other dancers. But even still, there’s those girls that always get a little too high or a little too drunk and try to steal your regulars or get you in bad with the boss.

You lick the edges of the paper and then press it closed before handing it over to Amber. To you, it’s just a job. It’s just the quickest way to save money for college and get the hell out of the city. As she pulls up to the bar, you can see smoke clouds over the shadows of guys standing in the parking lot, their Harley’s all lined up as well with the signature stencil of Angel’s wings painted on the sides—and the sight makes your stomach sink. The Iron Crusaders are here tonight, and that means your brother is here with them.

“Seems busy. Hopefully.” Amber lights up the joint as she drives around to the back to park, and once she finishes her smoke, you lean in the back and grab your bag before getting out of the car. The door security greets you both with a smile as you walk up and steps aside to let you in. It’s always overwhelming for the first minute that it takes your eyes to adjust to the dark coupled with the blinding spot lights over each pole where other dancers are working. Thunderous black metal and the smell of sweat and alcohol are strong as you and Amber creep back to the locker room, hiding in the shadows from hungry eyes.

You go to your locker and drop your duffle bag on the bench that lines the front of the lockers, before shrugging off your jacket and then stripping off your t-shirt and shorts as well, you never bother to wear underwear beneath your clothes before work since modesty doesn’t exist in the locker room. After you grab your dance outfit you stow your clothes in your duffle bag and then shove it into the locker.

Amber comes up to you already dressed and with a cigarette hanging from her mouth as usual, as you step into a pair of pastel pink, frilly panties,

“I saw your brother.” She says, exhaling the smoke above your head.

“Yeah, I noticed the Crusaders were already here when we pulled up.” You say with a sigh, clipping closed the front of your matching pink bra that has a sheer chemise around it which falls just to your hips—making you seem a little more demure you think. The night’s when your brother show up are always the worst, after all he’s the one who forced you to start dancing as soon as mama died, as if he were waiting her out.

Once you get your boots on and Amber has drowned herself in half a bottle of perfume, you both venture out to the front of the bar. Thankfully, you immediately spot a vacant pole standing lonely in a crowd of strangers, and you give your friend’s hand a reassuring squeeze before you part ways.

It’s a relief as soon as your fingers wrap around the cold metal, having somehow made it through the crowd without getting your ass grabbed even once. When the people standing around notice you’re beginning to spin around the pole, they step back a little—giving you room as well as their full attention.

Your hips find rhythm with the song, gyrating with one leg wrapped around the pole as you lean back into an impressive arch that has a few of the men whistling in approval. As you dance, you let your thoughts wander, imagining that instead of a crowd of strangers watching you it’s only Rust. His stormy eyes trained on your every move as you spin around the pole, suspended midair with it pinned between your thighs. Would he think you’re beautiful?

Everything around you seems to fade away thinking of him. You imagine his hands on your hips instead of your own, or his fingers knotted in your hair. It’s only when the song ends that you’re pulled back to reality and face to face again with all the unfamiliar eyes watching you with vicious intent. 

Just as you’re getting ready to start again once a new song begins, a giant of a man clad in a leather jacket with the tell-tale symbol of angel’s wings stitched into it, shoves his way through the crowd and right up to you.

“Ginger’s lookin’ for you.” He says gruffly, staring down at you.

That’s the last thing you wanted to hear tonight, and you have to steel your expression so that he won’t notice the fear that’s suddenly made your sweat slicked skin feel cold and your body shaky. You nod silently and he turns to lead you through the crowd and out to the back. This time a few calloused hands do get a handful of your ass as you walk by.

Outside it’s completely dark out now, and in the center of the field a large bonfire is raging—illuminating the men and woman who’re all standing around it getting drunk and fucked up. The roaring noise of motorcycles rips through the silence, making you jump slightly as you follow after the man, and you watch as a group of bikers all come speeding into the clearing.

You wrap your arms around yourself even though it’s not cold out, suddenly feeling self-conscious since you’re not usually forced to parade around in your lingerie, though it’s time like this that are the reason you wear combat boots and not heels. He leads you away from the bonfire and off to the side, where someone has made a smaller fire and a few men are sitting around it on old lawn chairs, your brother among them.

“Here she is.” Your guide announces, walking through the circle of chairs to his own seat. Dutifully, you step forward and stand beside your brother, who turns and looks up at you with a smirk before grabbing you by the arm and yanking you forward hard enough that you stumble—which gives him the chance to grab your waist and pull you into his lap.

“I don’ think you ever met my little sister, Crash. She’s still pretty new to the family business,” Ginger bounces his leg beneath you, and you grab onto his arm to keep yourself from falling over “Go ahead and say hi, Layla.”

Maybe if you do what he says he won’t hurt you tonight, you hope… Reluctantly, you turn to face the other men sitting around the fire, and when your eyes find the familiar stormy gaze staring intently back at you—it feels like someone knocked all the air from your lungs. Rust is leaned back in the lawn chair, a cigarette flicking anxiously between his fingers as he takes you in—the firelight glimmering within his eyes as they rake over your figure.

“Nice to meet you.” Is all he says, and you don’t realize you’ve been digging your fingers into Ginger’s arm until he yanks free from your grip to grab his beer off the ground and then lean back in his seat. He pulls you with him, so your curled up against his chest with your head resting on his shoulder.

“—After Houston, I got to a doc in Eagle Pass, then a coyote got me across the border. Past two years, I been working security for a group in San Miguel. Feds never ID'd me, you know, so I figured, hell, two years pass, things chill down, it's cool for me to come back, stick my head up.” Rust continues their conversation as if you’re not even there. He takes a long drag from his cigarette, and you notice his hand is shaking slightly.

“That'll be tough, man... thinkin' you been dead this whole time.” You can hear the skepticism in your brother’s voice but Rust just gives a huff of laughter. Merely the smell of booze is so strong on your brother it’s almost intoxicating, and you turn your head away slightly to try and get some fresh air.

“I look dead, motherfucker?” His eyes flicker to yours briefly and then back to Ginger’s. As they talk, you’re thinking over how grateful you are that he didn’t acknowledge knowing you already or anything about your working at the diner. You’re just two perfect strangers.

Motorcycles revving drowns out their conversation as you stare hypnotized by the fire. Why is he here? And where is his partner? You wonder.

“My boys are looking to trade, alright? Coke for meth.” Rust rises from his seat and walks over to you and Ginger to take a seat in one of the lawn chairs right next to you both. He pulls out a white zip-lock bag from the inner pocket of his leather jacket, full of what you assume is blow. Up this close you can see the light sheen of sweat on his skin, and the tick in his jaw as he grits his teeth. He must be high already.

“What’d you cut it with?” Ginger asks, wrapping his arm around your waist to take the proffered bag with both hands.

“You’ll dig it.” Is all Rust says and leans back in his chair.

You lean forward slightly to let Ginger get his switchblade from his pocket, and then watch as he dips the blade into the bag—lifting it up with a mound of white powder on the tip and bringing it to his nose. You wince slightly watching him snort it up, the dry noise of it making your own sinuses hurt. He let you try it once, but the chemical remains dripping down the back of your throat had made you nauseous.

Ginger grunts his approval, then sticks one of his meaty fingers in the bag and smears some of the coke on his gums. All while Rust watches with rapt attention and long fingers tapping against his beer bottle.

“That ain't no fuck-around shit. Goddamn.” Ginger finally says and rolls the bag up before shoving it in the pocket of his jacket, jostling you slightly in his lap. Whatever it was cut with, it must’ve hit hard because you can feel his heart beating like a fucking hammer to a nail against your side.

You glance up to his face and their wide eyes look almost the same now, pupils blown out hiding any color. The only difference is your brother’s eyes are cruel and cold, and even fucked up you wish you were sitting in Rust’s lap with his arms around you instead.

“Well, let me tell you why I came, Crash. I need something from you tonight. I had a four man team for a big grab, lost one to smokies. I came looking to replace him— if you're still a bad-ass. Now, you do this with us, we talk about puttin' you with my man.”

“Where?” Rust lights up another cigarette, and your eyes follow his hand as he ashes it into the grass after a long drag. His fingers are so long, and his hand seems so much bigger than yours, you wonder what they’d feel like holding you close at night—petting you to sleep.

“Up at them Houston Projects. They keep a stash house there.”

“I come through for you on this tonight, I got to know you're gonna hook me up, 'cause I got a real job I was supposed to be doing.”

“You got my word. You back me on this, I'll back you. I might even send you off with my baby sister here for the night, reward for a good job done.” Ginger gives your thigh a hard pinch and you yelp, making the men around you laugh—except for Rust.

The men all talk for awhile longer and then you’re finally sent back inside once they’re ready to leave. As you trudge across the field back to the bar, you look back over your shoulder and see Rust staring at you past Ginger who has his back turned to you. The look he’s giving you almost makes you stop dead in your tracks, but you remind yourself where you are and hurry back into the bar.

You find Amber in the crowd talking up some of the other bikers, and you decide to linger around her for awhile for comfort. One of them offers to buy you a beer, and you accept even though you won’t drink it. It’s not because you’re too young, it’s just that you hate the taste. At least holding the cold bottle between your hands feels good though, and the rest of the night goes quickly listening to everyone talk—you even make some pretty good tips off a few more dances.

It’s a few hours later once you finally finish your shift, the night air is chilly now that it’s so late, and you and Amber walk hand in hand to her car. The cool breeze feels amazing on your skin compared to the heat of the day, of the stuff inside of the bar.

She chain smokes and rants the whole ride about how pissed she is that Denny is having a party and how she’s not gonna get any sleep now, while you lean out the window with your chin resting on your forearms and watch the shadowed landscape pass.

When Amber drops you off at your house, you notice that Ginger’s car is still gone, and while usually it would give you a sense of relief—you can’t help the twinge of worry over where Rust might have ended up with him. More than once you’ve seen Ginger come home beaten bloody or with a knife wound from one of the Crusaders runs, and you’ve always been the one stuck patching him up.

Once you’re inside the sanctuary of your room and alone, all the events of the night finally catch up with you. You’re still aghast that Rust had been there tonight, let alone making deals with your brother as if he were one of the Iron Crusaders. Maybe he was… Ginger wasn’t usually that friendly unless the person had rank. So, is he a dirty cop? That’s the only explanation you can think of for him being there with your brother.

Would he protect you, if he is one of them?

You open your bedroom window to let some of the cool air in and then tiredly, you strip from your clothes and pull on a pair of white cotton panties and an oversized t-shirt before collapsing into bed. It’ll be another long day at the diner tomorrow. Your life was starting to feel like an endless stream of work with no reprieve, but at least now you have something to look forward to.

When the front door slams open, you jolt in surprise—listening keenly for the sounds of who it is. The drunken drag of Ginger’s boots on the linoleum makes you sigh in relief, and then you pull your quilt up over your head. Hopefully, Rust will show up for breakfast tomorrow, so you know that he’s okay.


	2. Oh Say Can You See

The next morning when you awake the house is empty. Though, once you finish getting ready and head outside, Ginger’s car is still in the driveway as if he never left. Strange, you think, having swore you heard him come in late last night.

It’s a little past seven am when the bus pulls up, and you almost miss it spacing off into the sunrise. The bus stop is right out front of the mobile home park, so you don’t have to walk too far, and today it came after only a few minutes of you standing there luckily.

You sit up by the driver, staring out the window at the passing scenery. The sun is rising low over the wetlands, giving the sky a rosy hue and you let yourself become hypnotized by the blur of greens and blue to let the time pass.

A young boy rides his bike alongside the bus, a dark spot of sweat on the lower back of his t-shirt and mindlessly you watch until he veers off down a side street. Six stops later you pull the cord for your own stop, then stepping off right in front of the diner.

Darla is already there when you enter through the employee door, and she gives you a toothy smile through her obnoxious gum chewing. She always smells like spearmint and cheap perfume.

“You look cute today. Tryna impress someone?” She teases and you blush, though rolling your eyes at her to hide it, “So, how was gettin’ home?”

“It was good... We didn’t talk much but he was really nice. I couldn’t think of anything to say I was so nervous.” You laugh lightly as you grab your apron out of your locker and then tie it around the waist of your red skirt. For once you woke up early enough that you actually had time to shower and shave your legs this morning and having the house to yourself, you had decided to dress cute too.

The cooks come in yawning and bid their good mornings to you both as you grab armfuls of menus and cutlery for the tables.

“Oh, honey. What am I gonna do with you?” Darla tsks but she’s still smiling, and you both walk out onto the floor to flip on the open sign, set the tables, and get ready for the breakfast rush.

A few big tables make the morning go by fast, and by the time eleven am rolls around you don’t even notice when Rust and Marty come through the doors, that is until Darla comes over to the counter where you’re cashing out a customer and gives you a light nudge.

You follow her gaze to where the two detectives are seated at their usual booth in the corner, but today they’ve switched, and Rust has taken the seat facing the counter—and his stony gaze is locked on you.

“I’ll finish up here for ya, sugar.” Darla takes the receipts and pen from your hand and shoos you over to the coffee pots. He’s alive, you think, smiling to yourself in relief as you grab one of the full pots of coffee and make your way over to their table.

Rust’s eyes never leave yours as you venture over to them, a slight swing in your hips as you walk, and when you arrive at their table you can see now how severe the dark circles under his eyes are today. He looks as though he hasn’t slept in days.

“Mornin’ Rust, mornin’ Marty—” You smile at them both and even Marty seems a little rougher around the edges than usual, only giving you a weak smile in response “Coffee?” 

Both men simultaneously slide their cups over to you without a word, and you can’t help but giggle at that, then picking up their mugs one by one and filling them up with hot coffee.

‘Anythin’ else I can get you?” You shyly tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, eyes flickering between Rust and Marty though lingering on one more than the other. The coffee pot is heavy in your hand and you can’t pull out your pen-pad to write anything down, so you’re praying this isn’t the day the decide to order big.

“Nothin’ today honey, thank you.” Marty says, and drains half his cup of coffee in one drink—which you quickly refill. Rust shakes his head no once you turn to him, and with a polite smile you quickly turn and hurry back to the counter.

Even still, you can feel Rust’s gaze on you, so you put the coffee pot back on the burner and keep your back turned to their table. There’s something off about them both this morning. You’re used to Rust’s stormy, rough-around-the-edges demeanor, but Marty never matches him in it. They both look like they’ve seen better days.

Since it’s none of your business, you force yourself to keep busy with work so that you’re distracted from the looming question of what happened last night and if Rust will confront you about being there. Thankfully, that’s not too difficult since it’s still relatively busy with early lunch goers.

As you work you let your mind tune out and tune into the radio playing softly instead, swaying about the diner to whatever lowdown blues twangs through the old speakers beneath the hum of conversation. It’s no surprise that an hour goes by in a blur, and the tips have been good too thanks to your sunny disposition.

You’re in such a trance that you don’t even notice when Rust comes up behind you while you’re bussing one of the empty tables, and the light touch of his hand on your lower back makes you nearly drop the cups you’re holding with a startled yelp.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to frighten you.” He says once you turn to face him, and you can’t even muster a response at first. The top couple of buttons on his dress shirt are undone now, revealing a white undershirt beneath, and he’s got an unlit cigarette already flicking poised between his fingers. His hair is tousled by restless hands and his eyes look even more tired than they did, but the storm brewing in them has you weak in the knees.

“Do you have a moment to talk?” Fortunately, he spares you the opportunity to make a fool of yourself by getting to the point, and you nod quickly before setting the cups back down and following him through the diner.

Rust holds the door open for you, the little bell chiming above as you step out into the hot afternoon sun. He walks over to his red truck and leans back against the driver’s door, taking a moment to light his cigarette as you stand before him nervously playing with the ends of your ponytail.

“About last night—” He begins, but you cut in:

“I-I promise I won’t say anythin’ to your partner about you bein’ there…I uhm, I get it. We all gotta get through the day somehow, right?” Your words come out in a rush, but you hope he understands them. If anything, you just want him to know that you’re not one to judge. Hell, after the shit you’ve done and seen your brother do nothing surprises you anymore.

He regards you in silence for a while, taking a long drag of his cigarette that only makes more pronounced the gauntness in his cheeks, before finally he nods.

“Your brother’s not gonna be comin’ around anymore… didn’t make it back from the job last night. I’d say sorry but it seems better for you that he’s gone, since he’s been makin’ you strip and all.” Rust flicks the cigarette onto the pavement and then snuffs it out with his boot, and you stare with wide eyes as the words he said sink into your brain.

Ginger’s gone. 

The contrast of feelings is sharp, and it makes your eyes water. Part of you is relieved yet the other part of you knows that you’re out of options now, since he was the only one keeping you afloat despite the shit he put you through. There’s nobody now.

“You got any family you can stay with?” His voice pulls you from your thoughts and your eyes flicker up from the cigarette smeared on the pavement back to him, blurring with the threat of tears.

“No… No, I don’t have anyone now.” It comes out as a whisper and you have to clear your throat to swallow the lump that’s formed there. How long will it be till they come for the house? How long till you’re living off the clothes on your back sleeping in a den somewhere?

You stare at each other silently, and for a moment you feel as though he’s having the same thoughts as you—wondering how long you’ll last. Cars pull into empty spaces around you with the second wave of the lunch rush crowd and people brush past you to file into the diner, prompting you to suddenly remember Darla is waiting tables all alone.

“I’ve gotta get back to work—” You start to turn but Rust’s hand on your arm stops you, and you look up at him where he’s now taken a step closer and is standing over you.

“You’re welcome to come live with me till you can stand on your own, better that then fallin’ in with any of your brother’s friends.” His hand lingers on your arm, gripping gently but firm. It’s a protective sort of touch and it makes your skin prickle with warmth.

“You don’t have to do that…” You shake your head and look down at your feet. Wary nature is making you question moving in with a man whose name you just learnt mere days ago, but the well lived side of you is saying it couldn’t end up any worse than living with your brother has been. Something in your heart tells you Rust would never do anything like the things he did to you.

“I know I don’t,” he finally releases his hold on your arm. “What time is your shift over? I’ll come pick you up and we can go get your things. I don’t live too far from you anyway.”

You know if you really told him no he wouldn’t push the matter, but you’re quite certain he knows that you want to go with him. So, you swallow whatever pride you may have had.

“I’m off at 4 o’clock,” you take a few steps back towards the diner, though not willing to turn away from him yet “Thank you.. thank you for doing this for me.”

Rust gives a quick nod, holding your gaze for a moment longer before he turns to open the door to his truck and then climbs inside, revving up the engine and pulling away just moments later while you still stand in awe in the middle of the parking lot.

* * *

You finish out your shift trying hard to focus on work and keep the thousands of anxious thoughts at bay. Darla of course asked you what Rust wanted to talk about, but you lied and said he just wanted to tell you again that you could depend on him for rides home from work.

It was hard to lie to her, considering how she’s been the only person besides Amber that’s stuck by your side since your mama died, but you didn’t want to have to answer the plethora of questions you knew she’d have—nor listen to any well-meant advice. And what would she think of Rust if you told her? How could you explain that he’d been there to know that your brother’s missing?

At least your lie allowed you to tell her that Rust is going to give you a ride home from work today and all that prompted was a sly grin.

You bus the last of the messy tables as quick as you can, not wanting to make him wait. Sunday’s are always good for making tips, and you’re sitting pretty on eighty dollars. You learnt early on working there that all the church-goers make their way to the diner after service and tip well thinking it might earn them a few extra points towards paradise.

Once Darla locks up the safe for the night, you both bid your goodbyes to the dish washer and cooks and then head to retrieve your stuff from the employee lockers. With a relieved sigh for being off work you untie your apron and fold it up neatly before tucking it away, then grabbing your purse and denim jacket. Slamming your locker closed with a bang you wave at Darla over your shoulder, who’s smearing on pink lipstick in a compact mirror, and say your love you’s and bye’s before leaving out the back door.

Rust’s truck is already parked along the curb when you round the corner to the side of the building, and as soon as he sees you he gets out and comes around to the passenger’s side— holding the car door open for you. You murmur a thank you as you climb inside, and then drop your purse at your feet once you get situated.

It feels familiar, routine almost, but in a comforting sort of way and just like before you let your hair down from the high ponytail it’s been in all day. It cascades around your shoulders and with it the pressure in your head disappears. You roll down the window, sticking your hand out against the wind as he speeds down the backroads, and for a moment you can pretend that your life is normal.

The radio is playing Patsy, and you rest your cheek against your arm where it’s braced upon the windowsill—reveling in the warm wind against your face. This time he remembers the way to your house, taking each turn without bothering to ask for instructions while you just watch the golden sunset turn red until finally he pulls into the driveway of the mobile home park.

“Which house is yours?” He asks, and you sit up now.

“Straight back, on the left.” You point with one hand as you explain and roll up the window with your other one.

Once he parks besides Ginger’s car, you grab your purse and move to get out, and to your surprise he does the same. A blush creeps up your neck and onto your cheeks at the thought of him seeing the state of your living situation, with the cow jumping over the moon sheets pinned up in the windows and pyramid of empty beer cans that Ginger had been building on the coffee table.

As you walk up the front steps you cast a nervous glance over you shoulder and Rust is staring expectantly at you, which makes your blush deepen. Reluctantly, you shove the key in the lock and then push the front door open, rolling your shoulders back as you step in to hide your embarrassment.

“It’ll just take a minute to pack my things. Do you mind waiting?” You pluck nervously at the strap of your purse, standing with him in the living room as he surveys the area.

He just hums in response but that’s all you need to hightail it down the hallway, almost tripping on a pair of sneakers on the way, and into your bedroom.

The only thing you have that will fit more than a pair of clothes in it is your old school backpack, so you stand on your tiptoes in the closet to fish it down off the top shelf and then get to work packing up what things you think you might need.

Once you cram in the last of your essentials and zip the bag closed, you rush over to the mirror to grab the only nice thing your father ever bought you—a gold chain necklace with a heart pendant on the end—and fasten it around your neck. As you stare back at your reflection, a surge of emotion makes your chest ache, but you swallow it down. Ginger doesn’t deserve any tears, you think. 

With a deep breath you sling the laden backpack over your shoulder, kneel down and grab the wad of money you keep wedged between the mattresses and stow it in your purse, and then leave your room behind.

Rust is waiting in the hall for you, the dim evening light seeping in from the windows behind him illuminating his silhouette like a cowboy standing on the edge of a mountain, just like in one of the spaghetti westerns you like to watch. At the noise of you coming down the hall he looks up, eyes sliding over you from head to toe before he gives a nod and moves to hold the front door open for you.

Back in the car you roll the window down again, leaning out to look back as the mobile home slowly begins to drift away. Never thought it’d come to this, you think. But that’s part of being on your own, and that’s all you’ve ever really known. Why is this time any different? _Because this time there’s him._

You lean back in your seat and look over at Rust. He’s smoking a cigarette with his window rolled down too, wrist draped over the steering wheel and staring hard at the road. Words sit heavy on your tongue, but there isn’t a good enough way to say thank you and you know he wouldn’t want to hear it even if there was. So, you just watch him in silence till the sun disappears into the ground.

That's what happens when you're on your own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for waiting patiently for this chapter! I hope you're all enjoying this story thus far. Thank you for the support and kudos/comments!


	3. God Knows I Tried

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for waiting patiently for this chapter and for your comments of support! Life got me very busy the last two weeks and I didn't have much time to write so I am grateful for you waiting for this. I hope you enjoy this chapter!! ❤️
> 
> The excerpt from the play included is by Robert W. Chambers from The King in Yellow.

It’s a simple, unassuming house, with chipped white paint and a cement porch and a screen covering the blue front door. Bushes grow wild over the windows and the grass is browned— a low chain link fence guarding the front yard.

Once he parks in the driveway, Rust grabs your bag out of the backseat while you’re still getting out of the car, and you wait for him to come around rather than head to the front door by yourself. Nerves are making your mouth dry, and you look up at the starry night sky overhead for some kind of reassurance. No one knows you’re here.

Not that they’d care.

He’s got your backpack slung over his shoulder as he leads you down the small cement path that breaks the grass and up to the front door, and you can’t help but smile at the sight.

Once he unlocks it, he holds the front door open, letting you in first, and out of instinct you toe your sneakers off once you step in and set them beside the wall.

It’s nearly empty inside. If you didn’t know better you’d think he was still moving in, though you don’t comment on it. A lonely couch sits against one wall and then a lamp lights up the room in the opposite corner, but besides that all you see are books. Stacks and stacks of books on the floor.

“What do you like to read?” You blurt the question before you can stop yourself. By the looks of it the answer is everything.

“Philosophy.” He brushes past you and walks down the hallway, then speaking over his shoulder “You can take the bedroom, in here. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

You nod in response even though he can’t see you, thinking how part of you would like to say that you can share the bed, and nervously rock back and forth on your socked feet unsure of what to do with yourself.

“Rust?!” You call to him.

“Yeah?” He answers as though you’re in the room together, voice muffled by the distance.

“Do you mind if a take a shower?”

Silence follows for a moment, and then the sound of a cupboard door closing. A moment later he emerges from the bedroom with a white towel in hand and holds it out to you:

“Bathroom’s in the bedroom.”

With a quick nod you take the towel and then brush past him to the bedroom, grateful for the small sanctuary that you can now call your own—for the meantime at least.

A mattress top lays on the floor with clean white sheets and a pale blue quilt on top of it, and beside it a lamp sits on the carpet which you know he must use for reading. The thought brings another smile to your lips.

You retrieve a pair of baby pink pajamas shorts, an old t-shirt, and your toiletries from your backpack and then head into the bathroom. It’s just like the rest of the house: eggshell white and near empty. Still, it has a working shower and that’s all you care about at the moment.

Once you turn on the faucet steam quickly fills the bathroom, clouding the mirror where you’d been staring at your tired reflection, and so you step beneath the hot stream of water. A sigh of relief parts your lips, workday tension leaving your shoulders as the water pelts your skin with perfect accuracy.

First you wash your hair, hoping to replace the smell of breakfast foods and coffee with peach scented shampoo instead. It feels good, working your fingers through your scalp and long hair, and your eyes slip closed to revel in the feeling. Colors buzz behind your closed eyelids, as if your day is playing back in a sped up blur, and the heavy ache in your heart is more pronounced within the isolation.

As you wash your body your thoughts drift to last night, to the moment your eyes first met his over the firelight. Even just the memory makes your heart skip a beat again, recalling the intensity of his stare and your own utter surprise at seeing him. And when he’d came over to you and Ginger, you caught his eyes slipping a few times—he couldn’t fight it because of the high. You recall the way his long fingers tapped against his jean clad thigh. Was he jealous of the way Ginger was holding you?

Soap slicked hands slide over your breasts, and then back down your waist, and you look down at your body with a serene curiosity. Did he think about you last night too? Roaming your body, you imagine his hands to be yours, calloused skin and a sure touch exploring parts of you few have. An undeniable warmth pools in your low belly, making you bite your lip. It’s been so long.

With stern resolve you shake the thoughts from your head, getting back to the task of washing yourself. Here, of all places, should not be where you decide to break your dry spell. The lack of furniture makes it so echoey you can hear your own breathing echoing off the walls, and you know the sounds of your wanton moaning in the shower wouldn’t be hard to miss.

It makes you think of the nights your brother would bring home a woman and hearing her through the thin walls late into the night. Most of the time you couldn’t tell if she was begging from pain or pleasure, but the sounds of it would stay in your head for days after.

Often, you’d try to channel that energy when you dance. The high-pitched, fake moaning of a porn star into the movements of your body, overexaggerated and desperate. They always like that. Ginger liked that.

Maybe within all the shit Ginger put you through, he really did care for you.

Once you rinse off the soap you shut the water off and grab the towel off the hook, wrapping it around your body before you step out of the shower. You lather on some lotion and then pull on clean white panties and your pajamas, forgoing a bra. Outside of the bathroom it’s cool, a nice change from the humidity, and your wet hair hangs loose around your shoulders—dripping at the ends.

It’s late. You stand in the center of the room for a moment, eying the bed. There’s no chance for sleep now. Not with the feelings of hopelessness that are threatening to consume you as soon as you turn out the light.

You pad barefoot down the hallway and around the corner to find Rust sitting on the couch with his head tilted back against the wall and eyes slanted down at the small paperback book he holds with one hand. He doesn’t look up at you, evidently engrossed in reading. So, quietly you move around the arm of the couch and then take a seat with one leg tucked beneath you and the other dangling over the side.

The silence feels heavy, but you can’t tell if it’s just you—just your racing thoughts. From where you’re playing with loose threads on the cushion, your gaze drifts over to him. The veins on the back of his hand protrude slightly, traveling up his forearm beneath muscle and tanned skin and a dusting of dark hair. Your fingers twitch, resisting the urge to reach out and trail your fingers up his arm just to feel. You want to feel his skin against yours, how it’s been toughened by the sun and all the fights he must’ve been in over the years. You know on his other arm he has a tattoo, but you’ve never been able to see it clearly.

“What are you readin'?” Finally, you break the silence, worried that if you didn’t your fingers might develop a mind of their own.

“A play. The King in Yellow.” Is his simple reply and you nod to yourself, glancing at him in your peripherals.

A few seconds pass.

“Will you read to me?” Hearing the words feels strange, as if they were roused up from some confident alter ego that you didn’t know you possess. He doesn’t respond for a while and the sickly heat of embarrassment makes your skin prickle, your foot tapping anxiously against the front of the couch. But once he turns the page, he begins reading:

“ _Along the shore the cloud waves break, the twin suns sink behind the lake. The shadows lengthen. In Carcosa…”_

As he reads, there’s an underlying hum that’s different than the usual grave tone of nihilism that taints his speech. It’s rich and deep and reminds you of being a child, to the summer nights your mama would read you the bible to sleep.

Tiredness finds you at last and your eyes flutter, half-lidded as you listen, and unconsciously you find yourself scooting closer to him.

“… _strange is the night where black stars rise, and strange moons circle through the skies. But stranger still, is lost Carcosa._ ” On the last word your head falls to his shoulder, your cheekbone resting against his warm bare skin and the wet ends of your hair dripping onto the chest of his wife beater. He pauses but you don’t move and let your eyes slip closed.

“ _Songs that the Hyades shall sing, where flap the tatters of the King, must die unheard in dim Carcosa_.”

With your lips so near to his skin you can’t resist nuzzling your face against it— breathing in deeply as you do. He smells like home—like the sun, like pavement on a hot day, like leather and cigarettes.

Soon your fingers begin to spider their way over your bare thighs and then they curl over his forearm, holding on loosely. You find yourself wondering again how he knew Ginger… how he knows the Iron Crusaders, and you try to remember if you saw wings on his leather jacket too but all it looked was black in the dim light.

The muscles of his forearm twitch beneath your grip, and then you hear the sound of the book close, though not daring to open your eyes for fear of losing the moment. He doesn’t push you away, and then the sudden brush of his fingertips across your cheek makes you jolt in shock and he pauses, hesitating for your next reaction, but you just turn your face against his shoulder wordlessly beckoning his touch.

Rust’s fingers trace the shape of your face, stopping beneath your chin and then moving back up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The touch reminds you how little control you have over life, but at the same time it’s a reassuring caress, letting you know that maybe someone else is in control— and all you have to worry about is yourself.

He knows, you suddenly realize, he knows it all. There’s nothing to live for. There’s no meaning behind why things are the way they are, and that no one is looking out. Everyone’s moral compass is askew in one way or another, but sometimes we find people the same as us, to take care of or to be taken care of.

Your eyes flutter open. The room around you feels even more empty and the white walls seem barer and more vulnerable and suddenly you feel all that’s protecting you from life outside these walls is Rust. He doesn’t stop you when you bury your face in his neck, or when you climb into his lap and curl your body around him as close as you can get.

The book hits the floor at his feet, but it goes unacknowledged as one of his hands splays across your bare thigh and the other holds the curve of your waist—holding you as close as he can get. It’s warm and hazy, and your eyes slip closed again. Hot tears stick your skin to his, and with each shuddering breath you take he hums softly in response, as if whispering some soothing words in his thoughts.

With your forehead pressed against his neck, you feel the steady thrum of his pulse reminding you that you’re both alive. That this is real. His hand bunches the fabric of your shirt, fingers touching your exposed skin first and then his hand, bringing you closer. You can’t tell if you’re crying anymore or if it’s the tears you already shed.

It could be morning by now or another night. Time is passing ceaseless, but there’s no point to notice. The steady rise and fall of his chest draws you in, a comforting rhythm that lulls your eyes closed again, along with the occasional rub of his thumb across your heated skin beneath your shirt.

Your brother’s dead. Your mother’s dead. Your father might as well be. Though somehow they were all never really here… In this moment, it feels like he’s been here the whole time.


	4. Behind Blue Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellooo! Thank you all so much for your patience waiting for this chapter, I know it's been a hundred years since I updated. I had some major projects at work that needed all my focus, but I am back now and ready to finish this story up woo-hoo! Happy Valentine's Day my loves, this one is for you ❤️ ❤️ ❤️
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this chapter. There will probably only be one or two chapters after this one so keep your eyes peeled for that. Comments and kudos always appreciated! ❤️

Blue morning light filters through the blinds, casting shaded lines down the wall and onto where you and Rust are asleep on the couch. Your eyes flutter open, the smell and feeling of him surround you and his arms are still wrapped securely around your waist. 

As if sensing your awake, he stirs above you. Slowly his arms slip away from you and fall to the couch on either side, and a tired hum vibrates within his chest as he begins to sit up.

“I don’t remember the last time I slept like that.” He says, voice thick with sleep. You smile shyly and climb off of his lap to sit on the couch, and then stretch your arms up overhead with a satisfied moan. Quite honestly, you can’t remember the last time you slept that good either.

“You see the time on the stove from there?” He asks, unwilling to open his eyes yet or move from where he’s metaphorically become a part of the couch. You lean up a little, craning your neck to see over the counter till the small clock comes into view.

“Looks to be about 7:45.”

At this Rust’s eyes open, and he sits up a moment later, then running his hand over his face with a sigh.

“Just what I needed—somethin’ for Marty to give me shit about.” He grumbles and stands up, not even sparing you a second glance as he makes his way down the hall to what you presume is shower. Your assumption is confirmed a moment later when you hear the faucet squeak followed by the sound of water running.

Thankfully, it’s your day off, and you’ve decided to make the best of it by not letting yourself worry about what’s next and instead just taking the day to treat yourself to some much needed downtime. So, with a contented smile on your face, you rise from the couch and head into the kitchen. The linoleum is cold on your feet and you tip-toe to the fridge, opening it to reveal half a carton of eggs, a loaf of bread, and some pre-sliced turkey.

 _Guess his mama never taught him to cook_ , you think to yourself.

After finding what is probably the only pan in the house, you set to work scrambling some eggs and then heating up the toast on the stove too. Ginger taught you to do that to make what he called his world famous grilled cheese. Just sit the bread on the coils of the burner, heats it up perfect.

Of course, there’s only one plate and one fork too. So, you pile some eggs on it for Rust— with the toast on the side— and leave yourself to eat straight off the pan with the spatula, and just as you’re halfway through a big bite of scrambled eggs: Rust walks around the corner. Shirtless.

Your eyes water with the effort of not choking on the eggs you breathed in at the site of him, and the focus you’re expending on not dying leaves no will to stop your eyes from raking down his tanned, muscular chest. Beads of water slide down the muscular plane of his stomach, disappearing into the waistband of his slacks, and you never thought in your life you’d be jealous of a drop of water until now.

“Breakfast’s ready… if… if you’re hungry.” You stammer out as he walks past you to the sink. When he comes up to the counter beside you, you hastily shove another pile of scrambled eggs into your mouth, hoping that will keep you from saying aloud what you’re thinking.

“Thanks.” He murmurs, setting down the glass of water to instead pick up the plate, and then staring down at it thoughtfully for a moment. By the way he’s looking at it you wonder if it’s been a while since someone’s made him breakfast, or any meal for that matter.

You both eat in silence with you casting covert glances at him. He looks so different like this, you think. For once, he seems so human.

“Thanks for readin’ to me last night.” You break first, though still unable to meet his gaze. A beat passes between you, and then you see him slowly nod in your peripherals.

“Anytime.” Is all he says and then turns away. He sets the plate in the sink and you watch as he walks back through the living room and then disappears down the hall. All you can think is how you want to rake your nails down his back, or over the muscles of his stomach—feel him hovering over you, caging you in. Just to be close to him again like last night.

When Rust emerges again he’s wearing his typical button down shirt tucked into his slacks and a loosened tie, and his hair is tousled as if he’s been running his hand through it. A large leatherbound journal is tucked under his arm, and he sets it down for a moment to shrug into a black blazer. When he heads to the door, he finally stops for a second, glancing at you where you’ve been watching him from the couch.

“You need anything?”

Your brow furrows at the question and you shake your head, unsure of what he means. Money? Food?

“Be back later then.” He gives you a nod and then heads out the door, which closes with a resounding thud behind him—leaving you all alone.

Your eyes flit from one side of the room to the other, seated on the couch with your legs tucked beneath you and one foot going numb from lack of circulation. You’re not used to being by yourself that much—usually you’re always working or with Amber.

It only takes a couple of minutes of being alone with Rust’s scarce belongings and the looming silence before you jump up from the couch. There’s no way you’re going to survive the day counting the beads of dried paint on the walls.

In the bedroom you see he threw the wife beater he’d been wearing last night on the bed, and you stare down at it for a moment before pulling your shirt off and reaching down to pick it up. The worn material is soft against your skin and as you pull it overhead the now familiar scent of him fills your nose. Smoke, hot pavement, sun—you breathe it in deeply.

You shimmy out of your pajama shorts and retrieve a pair of light blue cut-offs from your backpack and tuck his wife beater into the front of your shorts before buttoning them. Something about wearing his clothes.. it sends a feeling like electricity up your spine. This is probably the closest you’ll ever get to committing a crime.

After slinging your purse over your shoulder, you pad back out to the living room to where your sneakers are leaned up against the wall. One you pull them on, you step outside and lock the bottom lock on the front door before half-skipping down the pathway and then slowing to a walk once you reach the road, making your way to the nearby bus stop.

As you wait for the bus, you look at the surrounding houses. Most are walled in by low chain link fences and painted in a variety of fading pastel colors. Rusts’s seems to be the only white house on the block.

A group of kids ride by on their bikes, laughing and shouting to each other, and a rottweiler in one of the houses across the street goes tearing across the yard after them—barely stopped by the metal cage as he barks and growls at them.

The bus finally pulls up and it’s a quick ride to the strip-mall, if you can call it that, that you’d seen on the drive to his place last night. First you head into the drug store, passing under the large green sign over the door into the air conditioning, which is a relief from the humid summer air.

You meander down the isles with the strap of your pursed clutched between your hands, chewing on your lip. It’s been so long since you actually bought something frivolous for yourself. The lingerie doesn’t count since you never wear it except to dance. You don’t feel comfortable in it anyways.

Rows of colorful nail polish catch your eye and you stop, picking up a bottle of rose red and turning it over in your hand. Maybe Rust would like it. _What’s his favorite color?_ You wonder, scanning the other bottles. You settle on a pale pink, since it’s not too obnoxious, and on your way up to the register grab a tube of cherry Chapstick too.

You leave the drugstore and head to the market next door, swinging the small plastic bag back and forth in your hand. As a “thanks for saving me from homelessness”, you’ve decided to cook dinner tonight—so you peruse the lowly stocked shelves hoping that something will pop up as inspiration.

Ginger used to make you cook dinner some nights, always some kind of casserole cause that’s all you knew how to cook, and after a while of hopeless searching you figure it’s best to stick with what you know. You gather the ingredients for tuna casserole and then head up to the counter, tossing a pack of fruity gum in with your items at the last second in hopes that chewing it will pass the time.

A clock hangs above the counter and it’s only a little past eleven am, and as you stare at the clock you realize there’s no way for you to get back into the house without Rust being there to open the door for you—since you don’t have a key. That leaves you with six hours to kill until he’s off work, and it makes your stomach sink with anxiety. Especially since there’s no way the tuna will survive for six hours out in this heat.

“Miss?” The voice of the cashier snaps you from your daze, and you blink a few times before realizing you have to pay.

“Uh—do you know which bus goes to the police station?” You ask as you hand over the wad of cash, and blush at the weird look the guy gives you.

“Sure, yeah. The ten goes that way, think it’s comin’ in thirty minutes or so too.”

“Great, thanks a lot.” You smile weakly and head out to the same bus stop you’d arrived at, which thankfully has a shelter that provides a little shade.

With each second that passes you’re praying that Rust won’t hate you for what you’re about to do—but it feels like there really isn’t any other option. You don’t have anyone else to go to who won’t ask questions, who won’t put you on the spot.

A drunk man homeless man goes stumbling by, screaming obscenities at nothing, and you step back a little farther under the shelter hoping he won’t notice you. Every couple seconds he stops screaming and stops walking, just standing in the middle of the street looking like he’s waiting for orders from somebody before carrying on again,

Finally, the bus pulls up. It’s a full ride so you stand in the middle, leaned against the rail and staring out the window to avoid eye contact with anyone. The humid stench of strangers fills your nose with cheap cologne and body odor, and dried piss. You can feel the man on your left eying you like meat on a hook, but you just keep your gaze glued to the passing scenery.

You’re stuck walking awhile when you finally step off, since the bus stop is a couple blocks away from the police station. It’s not often that you come around this area, it’s too city like for your taste, and even hangin’ round the Iron Crusaders the level of aggression out on these streets is high and it makes your skin crawl.

Cars seem to slow down as they pass you, as if their drivers are sizing up how easy it’d be to pull over and get you in their car before anybody would notice. You pick up your pace, keep your head down and counting the cracks in the pavement.

Just ahead, the police station is a dismal industrial looking building, and you preemptively feel embarrassed for going in there dressed as you are. They’re probably gonna think you’re turning yourself in for hooking.

As you cross through the parking lot you recognize Rust’s truck parked among the other cars, and it makes your stomach knot up. You’ve never seen him at work, in his element like this. A policeman leaving the building holds the door open for you and you thank him quietly before hurrying inside.

There’s a woman with blonde hair piled high on top of her head seated at a desk at the front, and you have no idea where to begin with finding Rust so you figure it’s best to just ask.

“’Scuse me, ma'am?”

She looks up at the sound of your voice, a fake smile plastered on her face that falters at the sight of you.

“How can I help you?”

“Do you know which department Rust works in? I don’ know his last name.”

At this her eyes narrow slightly, and then her gaze drops to your sneakers and travels slowly back up.

“Sure, honey. He works just back there.” She swivels in her chair halfway and points around the wall. When you lean over to follow where she’s pointing, you can see Rust and Marty sitting across from each other talking. “Just head on back.”

“Thanks.” Swallowing your nerves, you start to walk back, shopping bags clutched tightly at your side as you make your way through the sea of eyes that are now boring holes into you from every angle.

Marty notices you first and sits up from how he’d been leaned back with his hands behind his head, and a shit eating grin instantly lights up his face.

“Well, ain’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

“The fuck are you talkin’ about?” Rust looks up from the case file and sees Marty staring past him. He turns in his chair to find you standing nervously a couple feet away—rocking back and forth on your heels.

“I got locked out.. went to get stuff for dinner.” You explain, and then remember your manners: “Hi Marty.”

Rust’s eyes travel from your face down to the wife beater that you’re wearing, which you know he must one hundred percent recognize, and then pushes his chair out from his desk and stands up, clearing the space between you and then steering you away from the bullpen with a hand on your lower back. Over your shoulder you hear Marty call “good to see you sweetheart” and can practically feel the seething irritation that’s rolling off Rust as he leads you through the station.

“I’m real sorry, I just—I didn’t know how to kill six hours so I figured it’d be okay to come here and-and ask you.” You scramble to explain yourself, and hurry outside when he holds the door open for you. Rust just shakes his head.

“You don’t gotta be sorry. Just wasn’t expecting to see you is all. I’ll give you a ride back home.” He’s curt but you can tell he’s not mad at you, and even if he were all you can think of right now is the fact he called it home.

_Home._

The word makes your chest tight with longing, and you wonder how long it will be before you ever have somewhere to call home again. Somewhere with memories attached, memories that aren’t all bad even if there’s less good. You know you’ll never get the feeling of your mama back cause all her spirit stays with the old house. Same with Ginger.

Rust holds the car door open for you and you climb inside with a murmured thank you. It’s nice to be back with him, even if it’s only for a short time. He drives in silence, smoking a cigarette and staring intensely at the road ahead, lost in thought. _Probably about work_ , you think.

“So whatta you do—exactly—at the station?” You bring your knees up to your chest, with your sneakers hanging off the edge of the seat and wrap your arms around your legs.

“I work in homicide.” He flicks the butt of the cigarette out the window and casts a quick glance in your direction.

“Like in those crime TV shows? Where they solve the murders and stuff?” His lip quirks in amusement at that, and you rest your cheek on your knees with your head turned towards him so you can watch him better.

“Sure.”

The rundown suburbs illuminate his silhouette from outside the car, yellow sunshine glowing off of fading white paint. He’s got one hand on the steering wheel, the other hanging out the window against the breeze. The sense of familiarity growing between you is softening his features in your mind, making him appear less gaunt and tired—less worn by the world. He’s looking more like the old wild west: somewhere lonely on a desert hill, rugged but only from what he’s conquered, and his gaze heavy with all the things he’s learned along the way.

Rust pulls up along the curb in front of the house instead of in the driveway, and you quickly gather your bags and hop out of the car to follow him up the pathway. He opens the front door and lets you inside first, and just like last night you toe off your sneakers at the doorway before heading to put the bags on the counter with a relieved huff.

When you turn back around, Rust is still standing by the door and staring at the keys in his hand.

“Thanks for drivin’ me all the way back here…”

He nods and begins to slowly walk towards you, still looking down contemplatively. There’s an indescribable tension in the room, and you find yourself stepping backwards but are met by the counter hitting your back. He takes the final step and closes the gap between you, standing so close now you can feel his every breath ghost across your skin, and it makes goosebumps rise on your arms.

You’re too nervous to look up, and keep your eyes locked on his crooked black tie—hoping the blackness of it might swallow you up into a void. This close you can’t tell if the pounding in your ears is his heart or yours.

When he reaches out you flinch and he pauses, but when you take a deep, shuddering breath to steel your nerves he continues, and to your surprise only grabs the front of your shirt between his thumb and forefinger. His hand rests against your belly lightly as he rubs the material between his fingers, fingertips prodding against your skin gently through the shirt.

“Why’d you wear this?” He finally asks, and the question makes your face feel hot. You see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows and and can feel the warmth radiating off his bod. You lick your lips:

“It smells good…” Your voice comes out high-pitched and airy and for a moment you wonder if it was even you who answered him, but his quiet huff of laughter tells you that it was. He lets go of the front of your shirt and reaches up to brush a stray strand of hair behind your ear, lingering to rub his thumb against your cheek lightly.

“I’ll be back in a couple hours. Try not to wander too far, alright?” His skin is warm and the callous of his thumb is rough against your cheek, but it feels good and you lean into the touch.

Your eyes flicker up to his, and the heavy blue in his stare makes your mouth go dry, so you nod quickly.

Rust stares down at you for a moment and then steps back, only standing before you for a second longer and then he turns and disappears out the front door just like he did this morning.

You stare in a daze at the door. _Did that just happen?_

The sound of the fridge whirring to life snaps you out of your reverie and you anxiously run a hand through your hair before turning to the bags on the counter. You store the tuna, white sauce, frozen peas, and carrots in the fridge, and leave the box of corkscrew pasta out on the counter. Then you go to work searching the cupboards for dishes, and thankfully find a deep dish pan and a pot for boiling. You’d thought ahead in the store and got some paper plates and plastic forks so you wouldn’t have to eat out of the pan again… not that he seemed to mind.

Once you put everything away, you grab the pink nail polish and hoist yourself up on the kitchen counter closest to the window for the good light. You bring one leg up so your toes are dangling off the edge of the counter and set to work painting your nails, taking your time not to mess up. The pink goes pretty with your skin tone and you smile to yourself. He’ll like it.

Languid in the bliss of serene thought, your mind drifts to Amber, thinking that you should probably call her since she must be wondering why you weren’t at work last night. There’s an old phone hanging off the wall next to the fridge, you can call her while you wait for the casserole to bake. Your eyes flicker up to the clock on the stove—2:01pm.

When you finish painting the last of your toes you hop down off the counter and shuffle across the living room to the sliding glass door, careful not to mess up your nails along the way. You pull back the long hanging blinds, and the room is instantly bathed in warm golden sunlight. You’re gonna have everything perfect for him tonight. That way he’ll want you to stay.


	5. Daddy Dearest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for waiting so patiently for this chapter! I've had a lot going on in my life so thank you for holding on till I could get around to posting ❤️
> 
> There is like two seconds of plot in this before it jumps right into the smut cause I seriously needed some Rust smut in my life tbh!! I hope you all enjoy ❤️ (disclaimer - parts of the dialogue have been taken directly from the script and are not my own)

When the sound of Rust unlocking the front door reaches your ears, you’re just pulling the casserole out of the oven. Amber and you talked on the phone for the last 30 minutes, and you had explained vaguely that you’re staying with a friend for awhile since Ginger never came home one night. She knows well enough not to pry when it comes to Ginger, so she dropped that, but did give you some shit over staying with a “friend”.

“Evenin’.” Rust says from behind you, and a second later you hear him drop his keys on the counter.

“Hey, how was work?” You set the casserole on top of the stove, just making idle conversation as you grab the shredded cheese from the fridge and begin sprinkling it over the top while it’s still hot. He doesn’t respond for awhile and you look over your shoulder, hoping you haven’t offended him with the question. Did you overstep your boundaries?

“The usual… People out here, it’s like they don’t even know the outside world exists. Might as well be livin’ on the fuckin’ moon.”

This makes you laugh bitterly as you toss the oven mitt that’d been covering one of your hands onto the counter and turn to face him.

“Yeah, I learned early on that everyone works for their own best interest, even if that means sellin’ someone else out to get there. They all wanna get to Heaven and wanna be the only ones there when they do.” You lean back against the counter with your arms crossed, and to your surprise he takes a cigarette out and lights it up right there indoors. _Must’ve been a bad day_.

“If the only thing keepin’ a person decent is the expectation of divine reward then, sweetheart, that person is a piece of shit. And I’d like to get as many of them out in the open as possible. You gotta get together and tell yourself stories that violate every law of the universe just to get through the goddamn day? What’s that say about your reality?” He’s leaning over the counter now, fingers of his free hand splayed out on the white countertop and his shoulders hunched over slightly—as if the weight of the world is bearing down on him. When he brings the cigarette to his lips again you grab one of the paper plates off the stack you’d set by the fridge and toss it in front of him to use as an ash tray. He nods thankfully.

“My mama was in that reality. Always prayin’ to Jesus or God to get her to Heaven… to make everythin’ better. She always made me pray for her too, told me that I’d be damned if I didn’t. I never believed in it though… Any of it. I know that we’re all just here and there’s no greater explanation than that."

Rust stares quietly now, exhaling the smoke in the space between you and creating a haze in the air that feels almost like a shield to protect you from getting too deep.

“Your mama’s dead?” He flicks the ash from the cigarette onto the paper plate.

“Yeah.”

With one last long drag he puts the cigarette out on the plate and then comes around the island to where you’re leaning against the stove. He reaches behind you and shoves whatever’s on the counter out of the way and then his hands find your hips, causing a squeak of surprise to escape you when he lifts you up effortlessly and sits you on the counter. He stands between your knees, hands still on your hips as he stares down at you:

“Think she made it to Heaven?” His voice has taken a lower pitch and the sound sends a shiver through you. As much as nerves are making your palms sweat and your heart hammer, you can’t tear your eyes from his. Caught in the storm.

“I hope not.”

When he leans down your eyelids flutter closed, and the first feeling of his lips against yours is so faint it could be a dream—but then he captures your lips in a deeper kiss and you know it’s real. Your arms wrap around his neck and he pulls you to the edge of the counter now, so that you’re pressed firmly against him and he’s all you can feel and think about.

It’s like somebody turned your body into a live wire, and each gentle touch of his fingers and brush of his lips against yours sends a torrent of sparks through your whole being. When his hand slides beneath your shirt you gasp, and he takes the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth. He tastes like smoke and honey, and greedily you drink it in.

You suck his tongue lightly and he groans, the sound making your head spin. It’s never been like this before, that even just the hard seam of your denim shorts pressing between your legs has you gasping. His hand moves higher beneath your shirt and within a moment he’s gently kneading and palming at your breast, rolling your sensitive nipple between his thumb and finger till you’re clawing at the back of his neck and whimpering against his lips.

Always attuned, Rust lifts you off the counter by the backs of your thighs and you hold on for dear life as he carries you over to the couch. _Is this really happening?_ He sits down with you straddling his lap, your legs on either side of his, and one of his hands comes up to cradle the back of your head and pull you down into another searing kiss—fingers tangled in your hair.

His other hand drops to your hip, and he hooks his thumb into the beltloop on your shorts for leverage. For a moment you wonder what he’s doing, but as soon as he tugs your hips forward so that you’re canting over his thigh, all thoughts leave your mind. Lost to the steady drag of pleasure as he guides you back and forth.

You grip his shoulders to keep yourself upright, panting heavily as you stare down at him with half-lidded eyes, and he returns your gaze with the same fervor. Heat is building between your thighs, a pulse like a heartbeat that’s making your head swim and your vision blur, but there’s no getting away as he presses his thigh harder against you and guides your hips to move faster.

“Keep your eyes open.”

You didn’t even realize they’d closed until he says it, and the sound of his voice sends a shiver up your spine—the look he’s giving only adding to it. Chestnut strands of hair hang in his face from where they’re usually swept back, and his lips are parted slightly for each shuddering breath—and just the sight makes you want to taste him again. With your hands still firmly gripping his shoulders, you can feel the strength each time he pulls you down across his thigh and can feel the sweat beading on his tanned skin.

“I… I’m so close.” You whine, digging your fingers into his skin. Everything feels hyperreal, and you can feel the peak of pleasure just out of your reach—driving you out of your mind with need. Between you, you see the outline of his hard cock straining against his pants, and it gives you a surge of confidence, knowing in this moment it’s you and only you that’s causing it. Moving down from his shoulder, your hand drops to cup him through his pants, and he groans lowly when you do, thrusting up into your hand.

Feeling the warm and heavy weight of his erection throbbing in your hand, you want more of him, and despite your delirium you begin unbuttoning his shirt as quickly as you can. He leans forward to let you pull the fabric free from where it’s tucked into his slacks, then releasing his grip on you only for a second to free his arms from the sleeves. From there you frantically tug off his undershirt till finally, your hands connect with his bare skin. You drag your hands down his pecs to his firm stomach, kneading against the muscle and feeling he way his stomach flexes and contracts beneath your touch.

Your fingers trail against the coarse dark hair that starts below his belly button and disappears beneath the waist of his slacks, but before your hands can move any lower he grabs you by your hips again, and then deftly pops the button on your shorts and yanks down the zipper. With his free hand he grabs you by the chin and forces you to look at him as he shoves his other hand down the front of your shorts till his calloused fingers find their way to your dripping slit. The first graze of his fingers against the nub of your clit has your eyes fluttering closed, but a firm squeeze of his hand holding your face reminds you to keep them open.

Of their own accord, your hips begin to rock against his fingers, and a choked moan escapes your lips when he finally sinks one of his digits knuckle deep into your cunt. 

“More.. I need—” You’re cut short when he curls his finger inside you, forcing a whimper from you instead.

“What’d you need, huh? Need this cock?” His voice is rough, and he’s staring up at you with such intensity it feels like your skin could melt right off your body. Already he’s reduced you to a whimpering mess, and the more he fucks his fingers up into you the more any semblance of control you have begins to slip.

“I need more…!” You whine, grinding yourself down onto his hand. At this his hand drops from your chin and wraps around your throat instead, holding tight enough to still your desperate movements. His thumb rubs over your pulse warningly, the fingers of his other hand still thrusting shallowly in and out of your pussy—teasing you.

“Use your words, sweetheart.” He croons, squeezing your throat lightly, as if warning you not to test his patience. Hearing the pet name sends a delighted shiver through you, and the way your pussy spasms around his fingers over it makes him smirk up at you knowingly.

“Need to cum—need you to fill me up… Please, daddy, I can’t take it!” You cry out, the words tumbling out faster than you can stop them. As soon as you realize what you said your cheeks burn with embarrassment, having revealed one of your fantasies that you never would have admitted in a million years… especially to the exact person that you fantasize about.

You don’t have long to be embarrassed about it when Rust shoves a second finger knuckle deep in your pussy, curling them forward slightly so that the heel of his palm is pressed against your clit— steadily adding just the friction you needed. All you're used to is your own fingers bringing you to release, so the delicious stretch of his two much thicker digits has your back arching to get a deeper angle.

“Good girl, that’s right… Show me how much you want it. Fuck yourself on my fingers.” 

The pressure of his hand against your clit is making your legs shake, and you have to dig your fingers into his stomach to keep from falling over as the peak of your pleasure mounts. His fingers thrust deeper inside you, and desperately you rut against his hand—chasing release.

Every time you moan his other hand flexes around your throat, a warning squeeze to remind you that he’s the one in control... and that you’re just happily along for the ride.

Finally, the building pressure bursts forth and spasms of bliss wrack your body with waves of heat and pulsing sensation, and you collapse onto his chest as he draws out your orgasm with the steady thrust of his fingers. Your cunt spasms rhythmically around his fingers, and you can feel arousal dripping past them and into his hand and smearing against your already sticky skin. Everything sounds and feels like static, but faintly you can hear yourself moan his name and hear his breathless groan in return.

You could lay like this forever, curled up on his chest with his fingers buried inside you keeping you teetering on the edge of heaven. This is paradise. When it’s just you and him.

When Rust finally removes his hand from your shorts, he grabs you by the chin again—this time pressing his thumb into the hollow of your cheek so that you’re forced to open your mouth, and then slides the two fingers that had just been inside you past your lips. Your eyes flutter open, looking up at him from beneath your lashes as you suck on his fingers, swirling your tongue around his knuckles and then between both digits while he rubs soothing circles against your cheek with his thumb.

Reluctantly, he pulls his fingers free once you've thoroughly cleaned them, and you smile. A faint blush coloring your cheeks at the way he’s looking down at you. You can still feel his arousal pulsing, probably painfully now, against your leg and you reach for the button of his slacks, but he grabs your hand gently.

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart.” He says and you frown.

“But I wanna make you feel good.” You protest, but he just brings your hand up to his lips and kisses the backs of your knuckles.

“You already did… how about some dinner for now?” He looks at you and that familiar stormy look has returned in his eyes, dark and foreboding, though now you know it’s just him. He lives in an endless circle of pain and violence, with no willingness to forgive and no hope for the future. Living in brutal honesty that most people shy away from, every nerve of his soul exposed like a livewire to the vile world.

He’s a bad man, and you love him.


End file.
